Froeliche Weinachten
by Susan M. M
Summary: It's not easy spending Christmas in a POW camp, far from your home and family.  Warning Chapter 2 is very sad:  get out the Kleenix box.  Chapter 2 almost/sort of/kind of fits Challenges 124 and 218 for Papa Bear Awards challenge section.
1. Christmas is Coming

**Fröhliche ****Weihnachten**

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. It is making its debut as 'netfic, and has not been previously published in any fanzine. _

**Fröhliche**** Weihnachten **

**by Susan M. M.**

_Hogan's Heroes_

**Chapter 1: Christmas is Coming**

"Papa Bear, please repeat that." The voice was that of an Englishwoman, probably from Yorkshire by her accent.

Col. Robert Hogan reached down and took the microphone from his radio operator, Sgt. James Kinchloe. "The local underground will not be able to assist us for the next two or three weeks."

"Why not?" demanded a male voice. In London, a major in His Majesty's Army grabbed the headset away from the WAAF sergeant manning the radio.

"Christmas is coming, Goldilocks," Hogan reminded his contact. "People need to do their Christmas shopping, start on their baking. Some of these German cookie recipes, like _Pfeffernüsse_, they need to sit for days after they're baked, sometimes a week, before they're ready to serve."

"Do you mean to say you're putting biscuits ahead of the war effort?"

"Goldilocks, please remember that these people are not soldiers. They're ordinary German citizens who love their country and hate the Nazis. In the eyes of their own government, they're committing treason, and they're risking their lives and their family's lives, and they're not getting paid a _P__fennig_ for their efforts. And right now, they've got shopping and decorating to do, baking, church choir practice, kids' Christmas pageants to attend," Hogan listed. "There are only so many hours in the day, and their hands are full right now."

"Really," the major commented, in the dry tone that only the British can properly manage.

"There's one other thing, Goldilocks," Hogan added.

"What?"

"The local underground has asked that we cut back on our sabotage, at least until after the new year."

"It's not enough that they're not willing to do their share, they don't want you working, either?"

"They're concerned about reprisals. The locals are worried that sabotage and dirty tricks this close to the holidays will bring stronger reprisals than usual." Hogan paused a second, then continued, "I can't say that they're wrong. So for the next three weeks, it's rescuing downed pilots and aiding escaped prisoners only. No sabotage until 1945. Papa Bear out." Hogan nodded to Kinch. The Negro sergeant turned the radio off.

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

Hogan knocked on the _Kommandant_'s door.

"Come in," _Oberst_Wilhelm Klink called out.

Instead of tossing a casual salute to the middle-aged, balding colonel, Hogan came to attention and saluted properly.

Klink looked up at him suspiciously. "What is it, Hogan?"

"The men sent me to say thank you, sir."

"Thank you? For what?"

"For the apple chunks in this morning's oatmeal, sir. Been a long time since we've had anything but lumps in the oatmeal - the apple bits were a very welcome surprise," Hogan explained.

"Ah, those. The Zimmermanns and the Möllers sent over two bushels of apples: a combination Christmas present and thank you for the help with the harvest."

Hogan nodded. A few months ago, several of the prisoners had helped the local farmers with their harvest. Most POWs considered the break in the monotony of their routine worth the labor, and they'd been rewarded with a (small) share of the harvest. Enlisted prisoners could be require to serve on work details, as long as nothing they did aided the enemy war effort. Hogan had encouraged it, instead of protesting to Klink. He knew it was hard for the prisoners at Stalag 13, who unlike other prisoners, could not even dream of escape. Going to the local farms had allowed them some fresh air, a break in the routine, and some better food, at least for a few days. And it had allowed him a chance to make contact with some members of the local underground.

"If your men were pleased with that, they will be doubly pleased with my other news," Klink predicted.

"What news is that, sir?"

"An extra slice brown bread for all this week," Klink announced magnanimously.

"The _Kommandant_ means an extra slice of white bread, doesn't he?" Hogan countered.

"Brown bread, Hogan. There's a war on, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Brown bread," Hogan agreed. He had to let Klink win sometimes, on the little things, so he could save his energy for fighting for more important matters.

"Also, I have sent Corporal Langenscheidt to get a Christmas tree."

"Thank you, Colonel," Hogan said more sincerely. "The men will appreciate that."

"And I have arranged for two clergymen from Hammelburg to come to the camp, since the chaplains are busy with the soldiers at the front. Pastor Adler from _der St. Matthaeus-__Lutherische__-__Kirche_ on Christmas Eve, and Father Schmidt from _der St. Johanns- Katholischer- Kirche_ on Christmas day. They are coming for the guards, but if your men can behave themselves, they may also attend the services."

"They'll behave," Hogan promised.

"I expect all your men to be on their best behavior for the holiday. I am having a very important guest coming for Christmas dinner, and I don't want any monkey business while she's here."

"She?" Hogan repeated. "You going to try to get _Frau_ Linkmeyer under the mistletoe?"

Klink shuddered at the thought of kissing General Burkhalter's sister. "My mother is coming for Christmas, and I want to enjoy my visit with her. I don't want to have to put anyone in the cooler on Christmas day."

Hogan tried not to think about how long it had been since he'd seen his mother. "Trust me, none of the men want to spend the holiday down there."

"Any trouble from any of the men at Christmas, and the punishment will be double the usual. I am -"

"- tough but fair," Klink and Hogan said in unison.

"I'll talk to the men, _Herr Kommandant_, make sure there's no mischief. Matter of fact, I'll go talk to them now," Hogan said.

Klink nodded. "Dismissed."

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

Corporal Langenscheidt jumped out of the truck. "All right, boys, let's get it out carefully."

Two other guards exited the truck. They went round to the back of the vehicle and removed a large fir tree.

"Now that's a proper _T__annenbaum_," one of them said. "It's taller than I am, and rounder than Sgt. Schultz."

The other guards laughed.

"The _Kommandant_ said to set it up in the mess hall." Langenscheidt saw a young private passing by, and called out to him. "Schlausen, come here a minute."

"_Ja, Unteroffizier_?"

Langenscheidt took a two-foot tall fir from the truck. "Take this to the prisoners' mess hall."

" _Jawohl_, _Unteroffizier_ Langenscheidt. "

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

_**Author's Note:**__ WAAF was the British equivalent of a US Army Air Corps WAC. Pvt. Schlausen was created by Peggy Hartsook in "Something Unpredictable," published in __Of Dreams and Schemes #25. _Gracias, muchas gracias, und danke _to Lizzi0307for correcting my German._ _All errors that remain are my own. _


	2. Decorating the Christmas Tree

**Froeliche Weihnachten**

Standard Fanfic Disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. Yeah, that's it, typing practice. They will be returned to their original owners (relatively) unharmed. Based on situations and characters from the TV show _Hogan's Heroes,_ and the songs "Christmas in the Trenches" and "A Silent Night, Christmas 1915." This story is debuting as 'netfic. It has not been previously published in any 'zine.

**Froeliche Weihnachten**

_Hogan's Heroes_

_by Susan M. M._

Sgt. Schultz sat at a table in the prisoners' mess hall. Officially, he was supervising the POWs who were decorating the small fir tree. Unofficially, he was playing cards with his right hand (losing at solitaire) and eating LeBeau's _A__pfelstrudel _with his left hand.

The POWs cut colored construction paper into strips and pasted them into chains as carefully and solemnly as any first grader.

"_Il est né, le Divin Enfant." _LeBeau hesitated, not remembering the next line of the carol.

Carter took up where LeBeau left off. "Play the oboe and bagpipe merrily. He is born, the holy child. Sing we all of the Savior mild." Carter had a surprisingly good voice, and unlike the others, he managed to stay on key.

Schultz glanced up at the tree and looked away. At home, his Klara was probably doing the same thing. She had just sent him a card she had made in school: a _T__annenbaum _done in green crayon, the words _froeliche weihnachten _carefully traced above where the teacher had written it. _Die Kinder _were a headache and a half when he lived with them, but now, so far from home at Christmas, he would have given a million _Reichmarks_ to spend just one hour with them. He returned his attention to the cards.

"Wotcha doing, Schultzie?"Newkirk asked.

"Losing." He kept his voice gruff. A soldier of the victorious Third Reich did not let prisoners see his eyes water.

"God rest ye merry, gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day."

"I remember the first time I heard that song," Schultz said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Wot's that , Schultzie?" Newkirk asked.

Schultz repeated, "I remember the first time I heard that song."

"Oh?" Carter turned from the tree to face the rotund sergeant.

"The last war—the fighting had stopped for a one-day truce for Christmas. My cousin Fritz – he was in my unit – sang '_Josef, Lieber Josef Mein._' Such a voice he had – he was in the church choir – everyone stopped talking on both sides to listen. Some of our boys joined in and sang with him." Schultz took a deep breath. "Then some Englanders sang that song. Then Fritz sang '_Stille Nacht_' – 'Silent Night.' Suddenly everyone was singing the same hymn – as if we were in church, where we should have been on Christmas, instead of on a battlefield."

The off-key caroling stopped. The chatter stopped. All of the POWs were silent as they listened to Schultz.

"Then Fritz – Fritz climbed out of the trench. He walked toward the English lines, a white flag in one hand, a bottle of schnapps in the other. The sergeant called for him to come back, but he didn't listen. We were all sure he was going to be shot, Christmas truce or not."

One young RAF prisoner stared, his eyes wide.

"And then what happened?" Carter asked.

"One of the Englanders came out –unarmed – his hands spread out to show they were empty. Suddenly, everyone was out of the trenches – out in the open. We traded cigarettes – chocolate – hidden flasks. We showed off pictures of our sweethearts – Gretchen and I were not yet married, just courting. There was not so much of her then, and one of the Englanders wanted to trade for a picture of his girl, but I wouldn't."

"_C'est bon,"_ LeBeau approved. "Sweethearts should be loyal to each other."

"Says the man with two dozen birds 'e's trying to court at one time," Newkirk muttered.

"Ernst Zimmermann had a fiddle – and he played much better than _d__er K__ommandant_, let me tell you – and one of them had a concertina and another had a pennywhistle. We had music and those of us who knew a little of each other's languages tried to talk. We agreed that it was a terrible shame, with their king and our _Kaiser _first cousins, that they couldn't find a better way to solve their problems. We played soccer."

"Who won?" Newkirk and Carter asked simultaneously.

"They did," Schultz admitted, "but we made them pay for every point. For a few hours we were men – Christians – not soldiers. Then the truce ended and _unser Leutnant_ expected us to shoot the men we'd been making merry with. The boy with the concertina – he was barely old enough to shave – had shown me a picture of his son. He had not yet seen the baby, and _der Leutnant_ wanted me to kill that poor baby's father. "

"Blimey." Pvt. Sanders paled. "But you didn't kill 'im. 'E came 'ome safe from the war."

"I hope so. We all aimed high and prayed to miss for the next week or two."

"I know so. That was me Dad, and 'e's told me that self-same story every Christmas since I was a wee lad," Sanders said.

"_Gut. Sehr gut._ Because my cousin Fritz –_mein_ _bester F__reund_ – was shot and killed on New Year's Eve." Schultz stood and slowly trudged to the mess hall door, not caring that he was leaving the prisoners unguarded.

**Author's Note: **As I write this, it is a few days before Christmas. This chapter is a songfic, based on John McCutcheon's "Christmas in the Trenches" and Cormac McConnell's "A Silent Night, Christmas 1915." Fullerton-dot-edu-slash-bstarr-slash-CHRISTMAS-TRUCE-dot-LYRICS-dot-HTM has the lyrics to six Christmas songs based on the truce in WWI, including John McCutcheon's "Christmas in the Trenches" and Cormac McConnell's "A Silent Night, Christmas 1915." You can hear the hauntingly beautiful but sad "Christmas in the Trenches" sung by John McCutcheon on his album Winter Solstice or by Harold Groot on Windbourne's album Winter Celebrations. (Harold's solo is followed by Windbourne doing a bilingual rendition of "Stille Nacht" and "Silent Night.") You can hear "A Silent Night, Christmas 1915" on Celtic Thunder 's albums Act Two and Christmas. My German is limited to what I learned from watching _Hogan's Heroes_ and reading Heidi. Many thanks to Lizzi0307 for correcting the worst of my errors.


	3. Christmas Dinner

**Fröhliche ****Weihnachten**

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. It is making its debut as 'netfic, and has not been previously published in any fanzine._

**Fröhliche**** Weihnachten **

**by Susan M. M.**

_Hogan's Heroes_

**Chapter 3**

The phone rang four times before Klink remembered that _Fraulein _Hilda had the day off. "Stalag 13, _Kommandant_ Klink speaking. Mama! I was beginning to get worried; I expected you'd be here by now. What? The snow is how deep? No, no, I wouldn't want you to risk your life on icy roads. _Ja__, __ja_, a hospital would be a terrible place to spend Christmas. No, it's all right, Mama. Your safety is the most important thing..."

They chatted for twenty minutes. "I miss you, too, Mama. _Frohe Weihnachten__. __Auf Wiederhören. Tschüß_." He hung up the phone and wiped a tear away from his eye.

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

Hogan knocked on the office door and stepped inside before the commandant finished saying "come in." He tossed a sloppy salute. "You sent for me, sir?"

Klink glanced up at him, unable to help comparing Hogan's usual lack of military decorum with the way he had acted last week. He suppressed a sigh. It was useless to expect an American to have the discipline of a German soldier ... although he suspected Hogan was lax even by American standards. "Yes, Hogan, I did. I wanted to ask you to be my guest for Christmas dinner."

"I wouldn't want to intrude with your mother coming, sir."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't be intruding, Hogan. No imposition at all."

"Christmas is for family, sir. You and your mother deserve some privacy."

"She's not coming," Klink said quietly. "The roads are blocked by snow."

"I'm sorry," Hogan replied.

"There's no point in wasting LeBeau's good cooking. You'll share Christmas dinner with me." It wasn't quite an order, and it wasn't quite a request.

Hogan's honor warred with his hunger. Honor won. "Thank you for the invitation, sir, but it wouldn't be fair for me to have a proper Christmas dinner when my men can't."

"This isn't a proper Christmas dinner. This is baked chicken, canned sauerkraut, and underdone potatoes."

Hogan pretended to be offended on the Frenchman's behalf. "Sir, LeBeau is a very good cook. I'm sure the potatoes won't be underdone."

Klink continued as if he hadn't heard Hogan. "A proper Christmas dinner is roast goose and potato salad and cucumber salad, sauerkraut - homemade sauerkraut - and _Würstchen_ with potatoes. Maybe a duck or some rabbit. Two or three cheeses."

"Roast turkey when I was a boy," Hogan reminisced. "At least, most years. Sometimes roast beef - I remember one year when I was a kid, and a lot of cousins were coming over, we had a beef roast that would have satisfied even Schultz. I was surprised it fit in the oven, it was so big."

"Stollen and _Lebkuchen_," Klink remembered, "and _S__achertorte_. Black Forest cake."

"My mother used to bake sugar cookies. She had cookie cutters shaped like trees and stars and angels. The angels' necks always broke," Hogan remembered. "My sisters and I used to frost them. We'd have contests to see who could make their cookies the fanciest."

"And did you steal raw cookie dough before everything was rolled out and baked?" Klink asked.

"Doesn't every kid?" Hogan grinned at the memory.

"My grandmother gave us Advent calendars every year. Do they have Advent calendars in America?" Klink asked.

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, sometimes there's a Bible verse or a line from a Christmas carol printed inside."

"_Gro__ß__mutter_ always bought the good kind, the ones with a piece of chocolate inside."

"That beats the heck out of a Bible verse, at least as far as a kid is concerned," Hogan said. "We used to go caroling door to door, and then have hot chocolate afterwards. "

"We did that, too, at the _Christkindlmarkt." _

"My sisters and I always asked if we could open just one present on Christmas Eve, and my parents always said no, we had to wait."

"I loved going to the _Christkindlmarkt_ when I was a boy. The Nativity scene, the giant Christmas tree, all the food - Bratwurst and Stollen and Glühwein - and all the things to see and buy. It was freezing cold, but I loved it."

Both fell silent, remembering Christmases past in better years.

"Hogan, your family is far away, and mine can't come. LeBeau is already baking the chicken. Please, Hogan," Klink asked quietly, "I don't want to eat Christmas dinner alone."

Hogan hesitated only a second, then nodded. "I'd be honored to share Christmas dinner with you, sir."

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

LeBeau wore a white apron and chef's hat over his usual uniform. He gestured to the dining room table. "_Mon Colonel, Herr __Kommandant_, _bon appetit et Joyeaux Noel_." He opened the wine bottle and poured for them.

Klink looked at the table. A somewhat scrawny chicken, sauerkraut, boiled potatoes sprinkled with rosemary. A bottle of Riesling. He nodded a dismissal to LeBeau; the little cockroach had done the best he could with the materials he had. "_Danke_, LeBeau, that will be all." He raised his wine glass. "Happy Christmas, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan picked up his glass and saluted the commandant with it. _"__Froeliche Weinachten__, Herr Oberst." _

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

**~oOo~ ~oOo~ ~oOo~**

**~oOo~ **

**Author's Note:** Again, thanks to Lizzi for correcting my German and suggesting suitable foods for Christmas dinner. All remaining errors are mine.


End file.
